


Methane Skies

by violetlolitapop



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album)
Genre: Minor Character Death, this was written in 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 17:55:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11788362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetlolitapop/pseuds/violetlolitapop
Summary: Run, run, bunny, run.





	Methane Skies

**Author's Note:**

> *I originally wrote this in July of 2011
> 
> *I was working off from what we knew of the Zones and BLI from the album, videos, fan theories, and some world building headcanons that came from a pack of crash queens and motor babies I use to role play with.
> 
> *Obviously, some things that happen in this fic are not canonically aligned with what we leaved via the comics, but hey, it's fic.

For technically being a part of Battery City, the Acid Pools are by no means a pleasant place.

It’s nothing more than a chemical wasteland bordering between the city outskirts and Zone 1, it’s only useful purpose serves for being a segregated area where BLI can safely dispose of anything incriminating without any civilians being the wiser. After all, who in their right mind would readily venture into a toxic area filled with bubbling puddles of acidic green and yellow waters with only a spare bit of unstable bridges made of dirt to navigate around them?

“God-fucking-dammit, shit’s eating right through my boot!”

Smack dab in the middle of this radiation Hell, a fiery red head howls in the middle of the night as he shakes his left boot dry after stepping into a shallow patch of contaminated water. He quickly sheds off one of his leather gloves, tearing it off his free hand with his teeth and makes to wipe anything excess off, all while ignoring the faint sizzle as the liquid eats away at the material and the stinging burn of whatever is able to brush up against his skin.

“It’s your own damn fault,” a static covered voice rings out from the transmitter in his other hand. “No one told you to go through there.”

The red head brings the small device up to face level and calmly asks, “Hey, Ghoul, how about you shut the fuck up and give me a little sympathy here?”

“No sympathy for the stupid, Poison, you know that.”

Party Poison’s unable to holdback a sound of annoyance, one that’s just loud enough to be heard through the air waves and come out through the other’s transmitter clear as crystal. It causes a familiar laugh to reach Poison’s ears and a sudden twitch hits his right eye.

 “Where do you want me to pick you up?” Ghoul asks when all the fun and games are through.

“Don’t bother,” comes the reply. “Just pick up Kobra and Jet, I’ll hitch a ride back with Cherri and meet you guys at the diner.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I was supposed to meet him at that abandoned motel off Guano anyway. It should only be like a two mile walk.”

“Sure your boot can handle that?”

“My boot can handle that and still manage to find its way up your ass later.”

“Kinky.”

“Go pick them up already,” Poison deadpans.

There’s a slight chuckle on the other end. “Way to be a killjoy.”

The light reference is able to bring a small smile to the red head’s face. “It's all I know. I’ll talk to you later.”

A responsive ‘Later’ is quickly said back before the connection becomes overtaken with static. Poison casually switches channels, settling on a public frequency just to be on alert for any emergency transmissions. His glove goes back onto his hand, looking more worn out than before and begins to pick his way through the wasteland once more.

He’s nearing the edge of the area when the scent of limeade permeates through the air and he stops to look behind him. There’s a steadily growing cloud of radiation fog forming some yards away, making him curse and pick up the pace while pulling his bandanna over his nose and mouth before he’s able to inhale any more fumes.

He sprints through the rest of the field and considers it to be the greatest gift ever when the empty stretch of desert comes into view. He breaks into an all out run, races around the last of the waters carefully and leaps over a few tipped over barrels. He keeps running, even long after passing the ends of the pools until he feels the definite texture of asphalt beneath his boots.

While he had been able to pick his way through the Acid Pools by the neon glow coming from the water, the expansive desert has no such resources other than the pale moonlight that is very little help.

“Should’ve brought my flashlight,” he mutters to himself while his eyes adjust to the darkness.

He brings the transmitter back up and switches to the pictured channels, letting the monitor light up a small patch of area around him by the glow of the small screen. He holds it our in front of him and tries to identify any of the shadowed figures he’s able to make in the darkness as possible landmarks he’d find familiar.

“I came in through the West gate, so that means I came out South, so I need to go up more North…? Fuck.”

Poison ropes the device back in and fiddles with the dial for only a few short moments to tune into a private channel.

“Cherri,” he calls out. “Cherri, where the hell’s the motel again?”

There’s no answer, only static.

“Cherri Cola, answer your transmitter, come on!”

Still no reply, though that doesn’t stop Poison from trying to get one. It’s nearly a full fifteen minutes of ranting and raving in the dark before finally giving up on his comrade and try to get into contact with another. The frequency is changed again.

“Pony? Pony are you out there or did you get back to base?”

Static, just like before, and the only reason why this doesn’t begin to bode well with the young red head is for the very fact that he knows Show Pony is never without transmitter, always within contact.

A creeping feeling begins to settle in his stomach, one that he tries to shake off by telling himself that he’s only being paranoid, that the risks with this little self-assigned mission of theirs has finally gotten to him and is making him think up impossible scenarios. Which they are, completely impossible. Yes, they ran into a bit of trouble and had to split up, but it’s not as if it was the sort of thing they wouldn’t have come across in the Zones on a day to day basis.

No, Poison is just being paranoid; he keeps telling himself while switching back to the channel he uses to get a hold of Fun Ghoul.

“Ghoul,” he speaks. “You out there?”

There’s nothing but a buzz of interference coming through, though just as Poison’s about to panic, the voice of his friend rings through clear.

“I’m almost there, I’m gonna pick them up.”

A breath of relief passes through him right before he responds with, “No, it’s not about that, I can’t get a hold of Cherri. Or Pony.”

“What?”

“I can’t get a hol-“

“No, I heard you the first time, it was a what-what not a- Whatever, you get it.”

“Right um.. Listen, do you remember how to get to the motel?”

“Do you think you should still go? If your supposed to meet Cherri there and he’s not picking up-“

“Look nothing happened tonight that should get us thinking that something horrible happened or whatever. Cherri probably lost his transmitter somewhere and is still waiting for me.”

“What about Pony?”

Poison hesitates in answering the question. “Maybe it fell out somewhere while he was skating.”

There’s a moment of silence that goes on between them before Ghoul says, “I’m coming to pick you up.”

“Fine,” sighs Poison. “I’ll meet you at the motel.”

“You’re pretty damn set on going, aren’t you?”

“Heh, seems like.”

After a small bit of convincing, Poison finally gets Ghoul to tell him the coordinates of the motel, and after reaffirming that he will be picked up by the others regardless of whether or not their other friend is present. With a temporary farewell, Poison pulls the collar of his jacket up higher and goes on with using his makeshift flashlight to guide his way down the long stretch of road.

He finds all the landmarks Ghoul’s reminded him of with minor difficulty, seeing as to how he’s found it to be a little more complex when guiding himself from off the highway and further into wilderness. The far off view of yellow light smoldered behind some well to do curtains comes into sight eventually though, letting Poison know that he’s done a job well done in not getting himself lost and he races for the stranded building.

Parked outside is a bike that he instantly recognizes as belonging to Cherri and takes it as a good sign. He pays little attention to anything else in the surroundings as he wants to affirm right away that his momentary fear’s been for naught, so instead he hurriedly barges through the door.

He comes face to face with a most gruesome scene displayed on the neatly made up bed.

A single body is laid out neatly on the comforter, stained with a large wet spot of blood soaked into the blankets beneath the person, a well known large animal themed helmet (much like Poison’s own Mousekat one) rests over his head to block his face.

Poison stands frozen at the door. He’s more or less incapable of doing anything else, the shock of walking in on such a sight renders him completely paralyzed. His breath comes out in one big _whoosh_ when he regains his ability to breathe, and his hand instantly goes to the ray gun nestled in its holster and keeps it firmly against the grip while making way to the person he’s already been able to identify since first walking into the room.

He side steps an abandoned transmitter that had most likely fallen out of the hand dangling over the mattress and leans over the body, using his free hand to press against the center of the other’s chest to search for any signs of breathing.

“Come on, Cherri,” he pleads while searching for some reassurance of life. “Cherri, you can’t be-“

He can’t bring himself to finish the trail of words when finding nothing to disprove the reality of the situation and finally acknowledges the feel of cold skin seeping through the clothing and resting against Poison’s palm.

He takes in a deep shaky breath, unintentionally inhaling the scent of spilled blood and burnt skin, all to remain as cool and collected as possible. He brings his other hand away from his gun with the purpose of clasping itself into his friend’s lifeless one, though just as contact is about to be made, that’s when it appears.

A shadow that suddenly descends on everything in front of him, silhouetting on the opposing wall in the shape of another human being, it causes his eyes to widen in surprise, but in no way does it have him freeze up for a second time.

Not a moment later, the red-head ducks to avoid the laser beam that singes through the air and burns a hole right into the framed painting above the bed, landing on his knees. He rounds on the attacker, Individual at hand and already aimed, but the sight of the other has his finger hesitate on the trigger. Instead of the random Drac he had thought it to be, it appears to be a once familiar face.

A too pale complexion, an exceedingly cold stare, an overall aura that reeks with malicious callousness, and called by something completely different than before: Korse, a brand new name for a brand new person. One nothing at all like the person he had thought long gone from Zone poisoning, only to show up again as the new tool of those him and so many others find themselves up against.

His eyes widen at the sight of the other, and in the split second it takes for the other’s gun to be aimed at him once more he’s only able to mouth, “Not you.”

Poison quickly throws himself off to the side to dodge another laser beam and takes cover behind an arm chair nearby. He’s given very little time to collect himself as he hears Korse approach his pathetic excuse of a shelter and in only a few short moments does he uncover himself with his gun out and a working trigger finger.

“Not you,” he repeats angrily as he shoots. “Not you. Couldn’t it have been anyone other than you?!”

He doesn’t shoot to kill, only to disarm which he is able to do surprisingly enough as one particular blast from his gun hits smack dab in the middle of the other’s barrel, launching it straight out of his grip and sends it clattering clear across the room. Poison attempts to rush past him the instant Korse is no longer armed, intent on making an escape to avoid conflict that could be detrimental to both his physical and mental health, though it’s all for naught.

The moment he breaks for his escape, Korse reaches out and grabs for the back of his jacket, pulls him back by the collar and delivers a swift punch to his stomach. Poison’s hold on his gun goes lax; the weapon falls to the floor as he’s thrown backwards into the armchair with a rather audible _thump_ from the force of the blow.

Though the wind’s knocked out of him from the impact, he brings his right knee back high into the air and delivers a hard kick to Korse’s chest just as he moves to descend on him, sending him staggering back up against the bed. The attack does little in Poison’s favor however, as soon as he’s out of the chair and ducking to collect his fallen ray gun, Korse is back on his feet and towering over him, slamming his foot into Poison’s back right as he’s crouched down to pick up his weapon and pins him to the ground.

Poison flips himself over as soon as the pressure from his back is gone, though right when he rounds his ray gun in Korse’s direction, the Individual is kicked from his hand before Korse kneels over him to keep him still. As Poison kicks his legs and swings his arms all in the sake of freedom, Korse flings his flailing punches to the side and in that window of opportunity, he wraps his hands around the other's throat.

Poison grips at his wrists and desperately tries to wrench the other’s hands away from his throat. He’s able to feel the skin under Korse’s fingers start to prickle and warm, as though an iron steadily heating up is being held against him. With every passing second, the feeling intensifies along with the pressure of Korse fingers around his throat and Poison realizes that this is no normal form of strangulation, but is meant to kill him all the same.

“Remember me,” he strains to say. “Remember me, goddammit, you have to fucking remember me, I know you do…”

His words die off, the heat absorbing into his skin from whatever new way those corporate bastards had given this man to off Poison and the rest of his kind makes it unbearable to breathe let alone speak, and in a matter of moments he’s able to hear his own skin sizzle, feel a burn marking itself into his flesh, feel his throat close tighter and he thinks this is it, this is his end.

His legs stop kicking and his arms go lax, his remaining thoughts are all on how he’s going to die by the hands of a man who has no recollection of who he once was to him and how that is mostly his own fault, and of how right Ghoul was in telling him to forget the motel and just go back to the diner and how he’s led him here to this trap with his insisting.

“I’m sorry,” he barely mouths, and whether it’s directed at Korse for things since passed or to Cherri or even Ghoul, Poison doesn’t even know.

All Poison can really be aware of is how spotty his vision is before his eyes close, the same ones that have been welling with tears from the pain and lack of oxygen that are now able to fall down his cheeks. He misses the fact that when finally letting some for of relaxation for his head, he’s able to tilt it slightly towards one of the hands wrapped around his neck. He misses the fact that it’s almost reminiscent to how anyone would appear when leaning into another’s touch. He misses the gloss over in Korse’s own eyes at the scene and of how he becomes practically mesmerized, as though recalling something or other from so long ago…

Suddenly, the pressure’s gone. With that, his eyes flare open with a loud gasp of air, and even though his neck is more than sore and he has trouble feeling his limbs, Poison inhales deep breaths of air that lead him into a cough attack. Before he’s even able to catch his breath properly, he’s hoisted up by his hair. His legs are unstable as he’s made to stand, truly the only thing he’s really capable of doing is blinking rapidly as Korse clamps his hands down on both sides of his head to keep him semi-balanced while he forces eye contact between them.

Korse’s eyes go in and out of focus, Poison notes and they appear to be searching for something in the green irises in front of him. It’s during this time that Poison tests out his fingers, making certain if he is able to control them once more and when he feels able to move them accordingly, he brings his arms up slowly and carefully to wrap his hands around the other’s wrists.

The action sets off something in Korse, his eyes completely gloss over and widen just a fraction before going completely dark and narrowing down. Just as his grip on Poison hardens and his hands begin to quake, his lips part open slowly and curl back slightly to show some teeth and emits what starts as a low growl and escalates to a hoarse yell.

As Korse’s screeching continues on, growing louder while doing so, Poison allows himself to be shaken about between the man’s hands and stares in awe at the scene in what could be considered disbelief, right up until the point he’s suddenly shoved backwards, let go completely from the other’s control.

Poison falls to the floor, landing on his back once more and moves his hands to clench over his throat and finds his skin still burning even on it’s own as Korse continues to howl in the background, grappling at his temple lobes as though in pain. Poison can’t tear his eyes away from the sight, the spectacle making it impossible for him to fully realize the agonizing sting of his own wounds against the leather of his gloves. He keeps watching, right until Korse falls to his knees and he feels the need to provide some form of comfort, to provide something that will alleviate whatever it is that’s hurting him.

A nearby ruckus snaps him out of it though, reminding him just where he is and of the situation he finds himself in and that the man in front of him is not the same one he once knew despite anything he may want to believe. Even though many of his instincts tell him that it’s wrong to leave Korse as he is, he rolls over after making certain that his legs are working again and picks himself up, scrambles for his Individual and races out the door.

There are blasts from other ray guns (most likely from Drac reinforcements stationed nearby) that hit the dirt behind him as he charges back into the darkness of the desert. He avoids them all and keeps running despite his body wanting otherwise, all through the area and even long after finding the highway again, only coming to a wobbly halt when his breathing becomes much too rapid and much too strained from the exertion.

As he gulps in heaps of air, Poison carefully brings his hands up to neck level and barely touches the marks again with the tips of his fingers and pulls them away quickly at the pain he feels once contact is made. He hastily makes the decision to zip his jacket up completely, allowing the high collar to cover up the fresh scorch marks and keep them out of sight entirely.

After readjusting his collar and prepares to keep on his way, he sees headlights coming straight for him at a high speed, though he makes no move to get out of the way. Luckily, the driver spots him from a far enough distance and slows down, hits the brake and swerves right up to him. It’s none other than their Pontiac, the infamous widow on the hood reflecting off the dirty white nicely in the yellow pool created by the headlights.

Poison wrenches the door open with a shaky hand and slips into the passenger seat quickly without any hesitation. He slams it shut behind him, breathing heavily and earning a slightly worried glance from Ghoul behind the wheel to which he gives no attention.

“Go back to the diner,” he orders.

“Where’s Cherri-?”

“Just go!”

His tone leaves no room for argument. Ghoul revs up the engine once more and spins the car to face back towards the direction they had first come barreling out from. A tense sort of silence fills the interior of the vehicle for quite some time, put to rest only when the Kobra Kid speaks up from the backseat with, “We found one.”

Poison turns around in his seat instantly, first noticing Kobra and Jet Star in the back before seeing the smaller body in between them; a child maybe not even older than ten with dark curly hair sleeping up against Jet. He isn’t able to say anything, but the relieved filled sigh let’s them all know just how he feels.

“She was hiding in one of the warehouses we dove into during the whole escape,” Jet tells him. “She was the only one we could find.”

“Even one is a difference,” Poison assures them. “One is good.”

“She said she doesn’t have any parents,” Kobra cuts in. “Doesn’t know her father, and they dusted her mother when they took her from the Zones.”

“Do you know if they did that to all the parents of all the kids they took?” Poison asks Ghoul.

“No,” the other answers. “I don’t know about that. Pony said Cherri saw some stuff though, did you find him?”

Poison’s hand automatically reaches for his neck, covered by the collar of his jacket and sinks back into his seat while not saying anything. He keeps quiet for a great while before breaking his small stretch of silence by saying, “I found him, but I’ll tell you at the diner. You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> *My friend, who went by the name Candied Homicide back in the day, came to me one night many years ago after binge watching every Killjoy related video with a theory that Poison and Korse had something going on.
> 
> *She convinced me, so I wrote this.
> 
> *I didn't change much, fixed some grammar errors I missed from when I posted it on FFN so many years ago, changed some wording, but other than that, it's still pretty much in original format.
> 
> *I don't actually have a reason as to why I posted it here, only that I've been revisiting this world we created from nothing more than clips, music videos, and that damn transmitter thing whatever it was on the website that gave everyone a case of the "what the fuck?"'s. So, I guess I just wanted it posted on my profile here, too.
> 
> *Who knows?
> 
> *Well, keep running, stay shiny. xoxoxo


End file.
